Life Is Beautiful
by Pandorama
Summary: From death to life. As easy as that…and yet…not. Never easy. Three days mourning him and he’d been brought back to life with a phone call. Luby shoulda, woulda, coulda oneshot after the Congo. Fluff plus angst, so...flangst?


_So...fluff plus angst equals...flangst? Anywho, yes, a flangsty oneshot about what coulda, woulda, shoulda happened at the end of "Dear Abby" to save us from Jabby, Samka, and the altogether disturbing proposition by Dubenko. Now, really, if you don't love it, that's fine. But just think of all the pain this would have save through seasons ten and eleven._

Dead. He'd been dead three days…three days she hadn't slept more than a few fitful moments, hadn't eaten more than a few dry crackers, hadn't spoken more than a few empty words. A picture lay on her coffee table, creased from clutching it in nauseated shock, grimy from sweaty palms and jagged tears. His picture. Untaped from the inside cabinet door in the lounge, where each of their Polaroid's were tacked for reference. Theirs had been side by side, ironically. Now an empty square bordered hers, it's occupant elsewhere. _Elsewhere._ Four days ago, it had been the Congo. Three, it had been…wherever it was, heaven, hell, the great beyond. And today, a plane creeping its way steadily to Chicago. From death to life. As easy as that…and yet…not. Never easy. Three days mourning him and he'd been brought back to life with a phone call.

Her stomach was in knots, sick with all of what had happened. Sick with the realities that had shaken her, jostled truths loose. Left her life in disarray, priorities suddenly altered, some things clearer, some indescribably scrambled. Her mind spun with it all…numb to all else surrounding her. And yet she moved, mechanically, multi-tasking powerhouse, force from caffeine and adrenaline handling anything in her warpath. Body without soul. Malfunctioning. In need of a cigarette and a strong glass of anything and more than anything, to see him. To be sure she hadn't dreamed it all. His death had shaken her, his resurrection had toppled her, and his life…well, that was beyond anything she could sort out.

Sometime between dawn and dusk, something of slippery reality was conveyed about his arrival, something barely discernable in her sober-drunkenness, but her feet listened and carried her to where he'd seemingly materialized within the walls. She had to have been to this floor before, but it was lost in the fog of cognition. All that was recognizable was him. _Him._ Hospital johnny, IV pole, sunken cheeks, stubble, mussed hair, the singular most beautiful thing she'd seen in all her life. Alive. He was alive. Cracked lips formed a lucid smile as his eyes fell on her, a warm glow within her swelling, threatening to burst. She attempted delicacy as she embraced him, negotiating wires, lines, better judgment.

"You look good." The overwhelming effort of even smiling was apparent, but equally apparent, his determination.

She nodded slightly, unsure of what to say exactly. A thousand things begged to be set free, but instead, she swallowed hard. Her voice only wavered in the slightest as she spoke. "You look…like crap." A nervous giggle, fingers toying at his IV line to check it, though it wasn't really necessary. She simply needed to touch him, to be sure he was real. The events of the past few days had left her reeling, both from the news itself, and the implications. Unsettled issues…unspoken words…unshared secrets. A tightening in her throat begged to be set free, to expel the tears she hadn't shed in those three days, or the ones after. The weight of his hand on her shoulder brought her back to the present to look up, his eyes on her as thick brows knitted in concern.

"Are you…?"

She nodded, changed her mind, moved forward to embrace him again, this time with a vengeance. The feeling of bones where there had been muscle sent a chill through her, subsequently quelled by the gentle motion of his palm making circles on her back, just as he'd done all those nights when she'd needed him, when she'd needed comforting, needed his presence beside her. And under his compassion, she'd always felt it…even now, as it ached to be acknowledged in her own right. Love. Her grip on him tightened, no longer caring about the various obstructions, nor if she crushed him, only that she not break the grip on him, lest he slip away again to wherever it was he'd gone. He didn't object, rather clung to her as well, tangled in mutual weakness. Delirious or thinking straight for the fist time in months, he wasn't sure, but a soft kiss to the crown of her head nevertheless left him with the indisputable urge for more, to kiss her again, to rest his lips over hers and murmur sweet, lucid nothings in her ear until long after the fever passed, until long after her shift ended, until long after life and death claimed them both.

Years later, she'd ask him what he'd thought about, those long days in the jungle, between life and death, waking and sleeping. He'd answer her honestly, a smile playing on his lips as the horror of the experience faded in light of all that had come out of it. The beaches of Croatia, the smell of salty air from the Adriatic, the first moments he'd held each of his children, the sounds of his childhood riding trains with his brother. But mostly, he'd tell her, as they lay together, he thought of her. And she'd smile, laugh softly, and hold him close again, resolving never to let go.


End file.
